Free Deadly Friends by Stuart Pawson Page B

you told Padiham Road that this rape was on Christmas Eve?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Well, the one I investigated was on a bank holiday Monday.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So you know what tonight is? Maybe there’s a pattern.’
    ‘Shit!’
    ‘Quite.’
    ‘Happy New Year.’
    ‘Thanks. And you.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    We rang off and I sat thinking for a while. Sparky’s wife, Shirley, answered when I dialled their number.
    ‘Hi, Shirl,’ I said. ‘Would you be terribly disappointed if I didn’t come round? I’m falling asleep and don’t think I’ll be very good company.’
    ‘I’ll be a teeny bit disappointed,’ she replied, ‘but my teenage daughter will be devastated.’
    ‘Sophie? I thought she was at a party.’
    ‘She just rang to say it was boring, so Dave’s gone to fetch her. At least, that was her excuse. She’ll be upset when you’re not here.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ I said.
    ‘Charlie,’ Shirley began, ‘don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that your goddaughter has an almighty crush on you.’
    ‘Er, no, can’t say I have.’
    ‘Well she has.’
    ‘Oh heck. What do we do about it?’
    ‘Nothing. We’re hoping she’ll see the light. Are you sure you can’t come round?’
    I wanted to. These days invitations are rarer than apprenticeships at the Job Centre. I nearly made a joke about having me for a son-in-law, but decided not to. It was a delicate subject. ‘Listen, Shirley,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell Sparky – Dave – but something’s cropped up. I’m going to the nick for an hour, see if I can help, that’s all.’
    ‘Oh, right. So what shall I say when they come in?’
    ‘Tell Sophie that I’m curled up in front of the fire with a mug of cocoa and the latest Jeffrey Archer. That should do it.’
    ‘Aversion therapy.’
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘Charlie?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘Thanks, love. And be careful.’
     
    The town centre was crowded with groups of young people, singing and swaying, spilling into the road as they toured the pubs. Some wore funny hats or strands of streamers round their necks. Nobody wore a coat. They breed ’em tough, these days. The wind had swung again, away from the Pole, but it was still thinner than orphanage custard. Fortunately, alcohol isa good antidote. Tests have shown that vast quantities of it slopping around in the stomach are equivalent to wearing two vests and a jumper.
    I eased the car through the crowd, towards the Tap and Spile. The sexes were still segregated, but the time for mass pairing-off was rapidly approaching. A group of giggling girls sharing hardly enough clothes for one staggered into the road. I stopped and waved them across, and the one who got the blouse blew me a kiss. A party of young men in T-shirts shouted at them. Love was in the air, empathy was running high, but it could all change at the drop of a lager bottle or a misunderstood come-on. It was just a matter of time.
    Darryl’s silver Mondeo wasn’t in the Tap’s car park. If he had any sense he’d have used a taxi, tonight of all nights. I eased out into the street again and worked my way round most of the town-centre pubs, without finding him. Uniform branch were out in force, but I didn’t speak with them.
    Once I was clear of the throng I hot-wheeled it to the fancy canal-side development where Darryl lived. It had started life as a wool warehouse, a century and a half ago, when buildings were made to last but there was still something in the budget for ornamentation. It escaped the vandals in the town hall by the thickness of a small bundle of tenners and was now a highly desirable block of upmarket apartments, complete with security gates and private moorings. Most of the parking spots were occupied, but not by Darryl’s car. I noticed that some ofhis neighbours were doing a lot better than he was.
    I telephoned the nick and asked for all cars to look out for him. If anyone radioed in with a contact, tell them, I said, to check if he was with a woman. If he was,